Archive for the Love Category

I’ve been unmistakably happier recently. I’ve had a good week. I’ve spent every night this week with my friends doing nothing but sitting and talking around coffee, burgers (veggie of course!) and hookah. Life’s good when you have companions and those things.

So I put the topic as love because I love so passionately as I’ve already mentioned a dozen times in this blog that no one reads. I was telling my friend who I drink tea with on Sunday nights that sometimes I feel the only being who gives me the passionate love I share, is God. Divine love. Maybe God and my mother. But aren’t mothers kind of like gods on Earth for humans? Sure, our fathers helped make us but our mothers brought us here.

Thinking about motherhood in that way makes me want babies. Not now–oh God, not now. Besides, I’d actually need a little thing called a husband first.

I’m writing in this practically everyday now because the boss is on vacation and there are no manuscripts coming to my desk to read at work. So, I pass the time by playing FreeCell, this donating-rice thing my co-worker sent me a link to, and this. (ADD moment: Holland just took the lead over Brazil! WHA?!)

My friend and I drink tea every Sunday night together like old women. We laugh, we cry–really, we do. I was talking to her about my frustration over the shitty manuscripts I read because some of these “writers” think anyone can write a book. That’s offensive to me and one of my co-workers as writers. It’s like telling a heart surgeon, “Anyone can perform a triple bypass!” (ADD moment #2: Felipe Melo was just red-carded after having scored an own goal earlier. Shit, the Brazilians are going to kill him.) I told my friend I can’t stand people who try to be what they’re not, who claim to be something deep and yet they’re so empty–

“I know where that feeling started,” she said, “and why you get so worked up about it.”
“What?”
“It started when our friend died and this girl wore jeans and a tank top to his funeral.”

I still vividly remember sitting between two guy friends and looking across the aisle at this girl. She was blonde and had on a red spaghetti strap tank top and blue jeans. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she was pressing away on the keys of her cell phone. I was filled with unbelievable frustration and mostly anger–what the fuck was she doing there? Was she just hanging out for the sake of telling everyone she went? That level of disrespect was such a low blow. It probably sounds so trivial to people reading this but my and my friends entire lives changed forever because one death and here was this girl, in beach clothes, on her cell phone. She probably went to the mall afterwards and said something like, “Oh yeah, I went to the funeral–sad. So you want to get your nails done?”

My best friend cried every day for a year. I was sitting in therapy four years later. And the girl who showed up to the funeral in jeans went on just fine.

Whenever I see someone doing something shallow or being immature or submitting a shitty manuscript that they think is gold, I think of the girl at his funeral in the red tank top and jeans.

After my friend killed himself, I was angry. Furious. But everyone told me, “You shouldn’t be angry, no. He’s dead, we have to remember him. Don’t be angry.” So I wasn’t. I grieved and I praised him and I missed him and I loved him.

“There’s this thing in our culture where we idolize those who have died,” my therapist said. “Someone can be a drug addicted wife beater and when he dies, people will still cry at his funeral and talk about how much of a wonderful person he was. Who’s to say we can’t be mad?”

So I went on a rant. This is it:

Dear friend,

I am pissed off. Why? You left me. Get that? You bailed. This world sucks, I know, I’m living it. We were all sixteen–you think we didn’t have issues? You think it wouldn’t have been just as easy to die instead of sticking it out? You abandoned me. You hurt me. You wrecked me. You ruined a part of me and tainted the best memories I have of high-school. You made me feel guilty. You made her cry everyday for a year. Your dying was a final, “FUCK YOU!” and I am MAD for that.

So when I die and I see you, I will punch you in the face. Afterwards, I’ll hug you cause you’re still my friend and we’ll play cards like we used to when we were sixteen.

So here’s a fact about me: I’m 19-years-old. I’m young for a college sophomore but I have a September birthday. I just made the cut-off way back when in kindergarten. I met a guy in one of my classes. He’s good-looking, he’s smart, he’s funny, respectful and 28 fucking-years-old.

I told myself no immediately, but we connected. We had little lunch dates after class for a month, got coffee together and chatted. We had one lovely evening that ended with lots of kisses and hugs and laughs. It was essentially official. He was my boyfriend, I was his girlfriend. I had to tell my mother.

“No.”

That was the start of it.

“He’s a man. Too old–no. Stop it now before it gets too complicated.”

Honestly, I don’t even know who I’m kidding. It’s not going to work in the long run; I’m aware of it. And call me a loser, but I can’t be comfortable if my mom isn’t.